How we applauded! Fil and Filippa had to bow their thanks many times, from the side of the caida (hall).
Then there was another pause, after the Padre and Fil’s father had whispered.
Suddenly Moro ran out with a rush, to give a wild Mohammedan dance.
How strangely he was dressed! He wore tight red trousers, a red and blue turban on his head, and a tight jeweled tunic, covered with pearl buttons. His sash was green, dotted with purple spots. He had purple parrot feathers at his waist and in his turban.
His feet were bare, as is the custom in his native wilds in the south island. The round shield that he carried, glistened. He waved two terrible kriss-knives, with jeweled handles. Over his shoulder he carried a spear. How he drummed on that shield! He hurled his knives into the air, and cleverly caught them before they fell. He seemed to pursue a foe; to crouch like a boy scout; to listen; to follow the track; to meet the foe; to battle for his life and country. At last he seemed to conquer with a wild yell, just as he was hurled backward and his shield was thrown aside. All this, while we held our breath in excitement, he acted in his strange, barbaric dance, keeping time with the wind-like, volcano-like music of his native Moro islands.
The fiesta and the dances were over at last. The dancers and the guests departed.
Next morning, as we stood on the coconut wharf waiting for the boat to come in, Fil perhaps noticed that I looked sad. I saw by his smile that he was preparing one of his jokes to cheer me up.
“Father,” said he, “may I take our friend back to America, so as to see that he arrives all right?”
“Wait till you grow bigger,” replied Fil’s father.
“Then don’t blame me if he gets lost,” laughed little Fil, as he tried to stand on his tiptoes, and lifted his hand high above his head, so as to appear as tall as a man.